Bringing Up Phantom
by Random-Battlecry
Summary: Being a Phantom's a challenge. Being a father's the pits. Post-LND, with absolutely no attempt to reconcile the sequel and the original, because it's funnier that way.


**A/N: The rush of NaNo is over for another year, and Ramin Karimloo has been my main inspiration for my project. As a sort of backwards appreciation for that, here's what happened after the end of _Love Never Dies._ No, really. This is practically canon. (Spoilers for LND, obviously, and I'll leave it to the reader to determine what my attitude toward the sequel actually is. It should not be difficult.)**

**Bringing Up Phantom**

Not everything ended that cursed day on the pier: not the angst, not the loneliness, not the passionate need, and certainly not the urge to strangle people. Specifically, the small child that the Phantom now found himself in charge of. Gustave de Chagny-Y. Or, possibly, Gustave Y-de Chagny. _Why de Chagny? _being a question the Phantom had asked himself, and Christine, repeatedly throughout their relationship, it seemed appropriate.

There was no answering the question, not now. Not without the use of voodoo, or consulting a spirit medium. Or, perhaps, zombies.

The first day was the worst. He tried to go farther inland, hauling a sobbing and disconsolate child along with him, only to find that the whole of mid-western America was not renowned for their lack of prejudice towards those who stood out as different. On top of that, Gustave seemed to have taken a dislike to his newly-revealed father, and acted it out through passive-aggressive scenarios that usually involved mouthing frantic cries for help to anyone who would make eye contact. The Phantom had retrieved him from well-meaning ladies three times before they even made the state border.

The second day, that was the worst too. He chose to strike north, having heard nice things about Canada, most specifically the air of general tolerance exuded by Canadians. All was well and shiny, till Gustave grew bored of train travel and demanded that his pseudo-father play a game.

The Phantom eyed him askance.

"What sort of game?"

Gustave bestowed on him a look of doe-eyed innocense that put the Phantom in mind of Christine, age 15, attempting to divert him from her neglected scales. There were always _reasons_ for the neglect, of course: extreme sleepiness, hunger, visits from friends, Raoul, visits from Raoul, rooftop picnics, rooftop picnics with Raoul, boredom, monthly pains, lack of interest, acute inquisitiveness about her teacher, and pure balkiness such as would make a mule proud.

Not till later did the Phantom begin to appreciate how seeing the aspect of his beloved in their son could make him rigid with apprehension.

"Nothing much!" chirped Gustave. "Just a game Mother used to play with me!"

Well, if that was all, and it reminded the boy of his mother—

"Which game is this?"

"Hide and Seek!" caroled Gustave. "First you hide, and I find you. Then I hide, and you look for me."

The wording was suspicious, to say the least, but they were on a train. How hard could it be to find one little boy in a confined space? The Phantom gazed at Gustave speculatively for a moment before he answered.

"I don't mind the first bit," he said. "Let's try it, and see how it goes."

There. Surely that was the proper amount of fatherly approval, without being disgustingly indulgent? Surely Christine would approve.

Surely Christine would not have laughed to find the erstwhile Opera Ghost crouched behind the wash basin in the lavatory three hours later, getting kinks in his knees. She would never have been so unfeeling as to—

"Where _is_ that child?"

He gave up at last, left his post in the lavatory and went to find the boy himself. Their compartment: he was not there. The dining car: not there. Other people's compartments— surprised people, startled women and aghast men and shrieking children, none of whom were expecting a visit from an irate masked stranger: not there, either. With a sense of foreboding, the Phantom moved towards the last car on the train, ghastly scenarios playing themselves out in his head. The boy could have climbed onto the roof and fallen. The boy could have been clinging to the outside of the caboose and fallen. The boy could simply fallen, no explanation: things happened like that sometimes. He'd seen it in the papers, unaccounted for happenings and mysterious deaths—

Or the boy could have been sneakily following after him, avoiding him all this time, and waiting for him to emerge onto the little railed balcony at the extreme rear of the train.

The Phantom, currently engaged in leaning over the side of the railing and bellowing at the top of his not-inconsiderable voice for Gustave! Gustave!— Gustaaaaaaaave!— felt a sudden violent push in his midsection. It had been years since he'd run the catwalks of the Opera House, and his balance had suffered more than he realized. Perhaps the weight of mask and wig did not help; either way, he went over.

Feet dangling towards the rails speeding by— and he'd _just_ purchased these dress shoes! Curse the boy!—

_No, no, not curse him, of course, not actually curse_, he amended to himself quickly, articulated fingers scrabbling for a firmer purchase on the railing. Suppose Christine's ghost was listening, after all? And— no harm done. He'd caught himself. He was alright.

He had tremendous upper-arm strength, for no adequately explored reason.

Pulling himself back onto the train, the Phantom had to admit to himself that it appeared Gustave had some— _issues_ to work out, when it came to his mother's untimely death and his true father's unfortunate appearance. Perhaps that was only to be expected. There had been some trauma, to be sure.

Attempted murder seemed a bit of an overreaction, though.

On further consideration, perhaps it was just more proof that Gustave was his flesh and blood, after all. The Phantom adjusted his mask uncomfortably, and returned to his compartment. Gustave was nowhere to be seen, and the Phantom had to admit that he was fine with that. The boy would come back when he was hungry, no doubt.

Settling back in his seat, the Phantom thought longingly of the day he covered himself in his cloak and disappeared into his own world, leaving only a mask behind. He'd been so content to die, then, feeling his life had reached both zenith and nadir with Christine, and all that had accompanied her: pain, lust, love, anger, hate, murder, pain, fear, more love, a little more murder, maniacal laughter, sticking plaster, the ongoing feud with La Carlotta, far too brief sexual gratification, more sticking plaster, topped off with anguish and a bit of music. He'd felt finished, then. He'd felt prepared. He'd felt _ready_.

Clearly, it was going to be a much longer lifetime than he'd expected.

* * *

><p><strong>AA/N: For anyone who used to hang out at PPN, there's a sort of reunion board set up, easily located via the link in my bio page.**


End file.
